Who Wears the Pants?
by FrankieSunflower
Summary: There are two sides to Peter, and Caspian really likes one of them. Language, slash and innuendo.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

.

.

.

.

Caspian was never going to understand how Peter could be so competitive and proud in front of everyone else, while ruling, in public, _on the surface_, and yet be such a submissive lover. He wasn't submissive in the relationship, not by a long shot; he was borderline arrogant, and more than once Caspian had had to convince him desperately of the depth and fealty of their love in order to stop him from duelling some poor sod who had made the mistake of talking in a friendly manner to the Telmarine King outside a professional context. More than once he had found it necessary to point out to Peter how possessive and jealous he was being, which more often than not led to a fight, which always ended in passionate make-up sex, so neither complained. Peter was undeniably a leader by nature. He wouldn't let anyone tell him what to do and never did anything that he hadn't decided to do all on his own, and now that he saw Caspian as being a part of him, he made it clear that he saw everything Caspian did as being his responsibility as well. Most of their conflicts arose from Peter's desire to control everything.

So when that first night came, when the affectionate, routine goodnight-kiss became more passionate than usual and their hands, as though moving of their own accord, started to undo clothing and stroke skin and breathing became heavier and they found themselves laying on the bed, entangled, knowing what was about to happen, Caspian was surprised by the meekness with which Peter whispered his request. Caspian was handed the lead on a silver platter. He had expected to be thrown down and barely given a chance to worship the body belonging to the man he adored so. Instead, he was greeted to spread legs and a soft whimper ... _sweetheart, Caspian_ ... eyelids fluttering closed, a coy simper. Peter had looked innocent, and shy, and Caspian had been struck with the enormity of the trust Peter had placed in him. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the proud High King would never consent to anyone else in such a manner.

Yet the next morning, almost from the moment they got out of bed, Peter helped Caspian dress (which was sweet rather than annoying, but still left Caspian in a disbelieving daze), ordered breakfast, went to the council meeting, and everything happened as usual. It wasn't necessarily disappointing for Peter not to have changed on the surface, and Caspian was satisfied (very, very, very satisfied) with the leeway Peter gave him as far as bedroom antics were concerned, but he did wish every now and again that one night, in exchange for a day of easy compliance, Peter would pounce on him and be as unforgivingly rough as he was on everybody else.

But instead, every few nights, the occasional morning, and always after arguments, Peter would be the one to cling to Caspian like a fragile, pleading thing, and either bend over or arch for his lover. It was a thing of beauty. He even _blushed_. Caspian was baffled, given all the things he had let him do, that Peter still had the ability to blush. One night, on an uncontrollable urge, Caspian had put his cock in Peter's mouth, and instead of recoiling in disgust, Peter had given up everything he'd silently wanted, using his tongue, even his teeth, slowly, teasingly, in a sinfully sensual display of shamelessness. And on other occasions, in order to stop him from moving around so much, Caspian had used shirts or belts to tie Peter's hands above his head or one of legs to a bedpost. Any struggling or confusion gave way instantaneously to cries of pleasure, because apparently, being tied down and thoroughly fucked up the ass was a dream come true for Peter. He even thanked Caspian for his creativity. _Thanked_ him. Not sarcastically, either.

Only once had they shared a mutually gentle session of lovemaking, in which it was unclear who was the most vulnerable, and that had been their first time, and even then, Caspian had found himself in the unexpected position of being on top while Peter put one of his legs over Caspian's shoulder and hooked the other around his hip and let him have control. All of it.

Either way, it was more of a pleasant surprise than anything else. Caspian relished in the sensation of being buried within Peter's body, of knowing that he was the cause of every willing surrender Peter gave, of being the only one that had ever reduced the High King to tears of speechless, aching, overwhelming pleasure. And every time those quivering lips whispered "I love you", whether they were laying together in the afterglow or writhing against each other in sexual bliss or just getting warmed up, Caspian shivered with pure delight. He remembered those moments every time Peter bossed him around about tax laws or council meetings and every now and again, if his darling was getting a little too self-important about ruling the country, a little fondle out of sight, an obscene whispered promise, or a discreet but heavy-handed grope under the table was really all that was needed to make Peter a little nicer.

Caspian wasn't worried at all. He knew who wore the pants in their relationship.


End file.
